


Glory, Hallelujah!

by AndThatWasEnough



Category: Supernatural
Genre: American Civil War, Gen, Road Trips, Sam Winchester's Visions, Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15 Speculation, see America y'all!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 02:31:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndThatWasEnough/pseuds/AndThatWasEnough
Summary: Two brothers criss-crossing the country killing monsters?  Nah, for their summer vacation, Sam and Dean hung out with a bunch of friendly ghosts at Gettysburg.Because God can suck it.





	Glory, Hallelujah!

**Author's Note:**

> Grab your Gettysburg battlefield maps and put on your history cap, folks! Sam and Dean are seeing America, starting with the high watermark of the Civil War. 
> 
> For SPN Hiatus Creations on Tumblr.
> 
> Happy reading :)

It’s too hot to even be alive.

Dean’s not going to admit that the jeans probably aren’t helping, but give the guy a break – he’s sensitive about his Ricketts, okay? And he looks like a creep in Bermudas. Just shut up about it already. 

Anyway – the heat.

Pennsylvania is something else in the summertime, but you can say that about just about anywhere ( _X is simply something else in the summertime!! Ain’t it, Brad?_ ) The early morning July sun has already warmed the earth to an ungodly degree, and Dean’s just resigned himself to being uncomfortable for the duration of…well, he’s actually always sort of uncomfortable these days. He wasn’t sure forty was treating him so well yet, and things were probably going to go downhill from here.

He should have gone inside.

He should have followed Sam into the visitor’s center.

But it doesn’t much matter now because Sam is making his way towards his brother, who’s too preoccupied with scowling and cleaning off the lenses on his sunglasses to even notice him. Sam shuffles the papers in his hand and readjusts his backpack, and thinks to himself that he’s some sort of genius because at least he’s wearing shorts. Dean’s an idiot, but what’s new? “Alright, got us a map – “

Dean jumped and looks at Sam askance like he had literally just backstabbed him instead of simply startled him. “Jesus, Sam! Warn a guy, huh?”

“What? Sorry,” Sam huffed, pretending to be apologetic. “Anyways, there’s a lot I know I want to check out for sure. Why don’t you take a look – “

“I have _zero_ , absolutely _no_ opinion on what we see. You lead the way.”

Sam shook his head, repressed the Bitchface…repress…repress…. “Ya know, just cuz you’re hot doesn’t mean you have to be a dick about everything.”

“I’m not! Look – it’s hot, Cargo Shorts, yes. And hate to break it to ya, but Gettysburg, Pennsylvania ain’t exactly my number-one vacation destination spot.”

Ah, yes – glorious Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, of Battle of Gettysburg fame. Since their arrival, Dean had already spotted one run-down hobby shop, a few too many Confederate flags for his liking (no matter that this was a Civil War historical site), and about a zillion sandwich boards and signs advertising **_GHOST TOURS NIGHTLY!!!_** This was really all up Sam’s alley – Dean didn’t necessarily _not_ like history, but Sam had this whole thing about America and, like, wanting to experience it like normal people, _appreciate it, Dean, the way the masses do_. 

“And what is? Vegas? For the millionth time?” Sam scoffed.

“A beach would be _great_.”

“Well, we’re _here_ , and I’ve always wanted to see Gettysburg – “

“You have?”

Sam shrugs. “Well…yeah. I mean, the Civil War is fascinating. It’s so nuanced. Because yeah, it was fought over slavery, but it brings up questions essential to figuring out the very essence of the American experience….”

See?

“You shoulda brought Garth. He’s all into the Civil War crap.”

“Garth’s busy doing his werewolf thing, and you practically live in my back pocket, so here you are. Now, I wanna get to the watchtower before it gets too crowded, so move it, fatass.”

xXx

They’re here because of God.

Well – sorta.

Sam and Dean should have learned long ago that it doesn’t pay to piss off primordial omnipotent beings, but here they are, having pissed off that one and only capital-G God of at least three major world religions, and now they had to deal with his super-sized temper-tantrum. But the world was still the world, and humanity was still humanity, and both of them had this uncanny knack of being able to carry on even under the worst of circumstances, almost as if nothing was happening at all. For the time being, that is. 

A little over two months ago, they’d been in that cemetery, surrounded. 

And now they were in Gettysburg.

As any hunter worth their salt knew, the East coast was already rife with paranormal activity just because it was the old country, if you could really call anything about America all that old when you’re thinking in relation to the rest of the world; now, though, with Heaven and Hell cracked open, that activity had skyrocketed – not just on the East coast, but everywhere. Sam was weird, though, and figured that if they were going to tackle this problem, he might as well have some fun doing it (which was usually Dean’s beat, but Sam had changed, as we all do. But Dean…Dean was feeling pretty stagnant.) So now they were geeking out on a road trip of famous Civil War battlefields, and Dean was pretty sure Sam was gonna bust a nut any moment now from having his inner history geek so thoroughly indulged.

Dean never got to have any fun. He never got indulged.

Not even when the world was ending.

xXx

At the top of the watchtower, Sam leans out a bit and looks out at the expanse of land before him, breathing in deeply, content. He could see the Eisenhower farm from here, could hear his brother’s belabored breathing, too, as he finished his ascent, and he had to smother a cocky smile. The trees swayed in the distance – God, if those trees could talk, could relay what they had seen all those years ago. But, Sam figured he could do one better.

“Sweet _Jesus_ ,” Dean breathed, coming to stand beside Sam and look out at the scenery before them. “What am I lookin’ at here?”

“Over there,” Sam pointed, “is the Eisenhower farm. Khrushchev stayed there with him when he came to visit the states. It’s a pretty interesting trip, actually – “

“Another time. What else?”

Sam’s bummed – he’d been hoping to go on for a bit, but he recovered. “Um, well.” He crossed to the opposite side of the tower and pointed again. “Over there is Cemetery Ridge. Bet you can guess why it’s called that. Back that way is where we came from at the visitor’s center. Right below us is the Rose Farm, the Peach Orchard…and over _there_ – “ And now he’s pointing in yet another direction, and Dean swears he’s going to get whiplash, “is Little Round Top.”

Oh, so grave. When Sam’s voice took on that gravity, Dean knew better than to stop him because that tone meant that he was about to get a lesson on something, and the brothers knew better than to interrupt each other when the other was rolling. “What’s so special about this Little Round Top?”

“It’s where Devil’s Den is. It’s a pretty famous spot on the battlefield. You know that one picture, with the dead soldier between those stone walls?”

“Yeah, think so. But wasn’t that all a set-up?”

“Well, yeah. A lot of them are, actually. The photographer dragged the soldier’s body over to the spot he’s in for the picture. Dramatic effect, I guess. But I’m not so sure he needed to do it. Hell, there was enough drama as is….”

The brothers were quiet for a moment, just staring out at the battlefield before them. Even with the heat, it’s a bright and beautiful day, and Sam appreciates it for what it is, hoping to…not God, but quietly begging the Universe to not take this away from them. From any of them. This world is too beautiful for any of them to ever truly know or appreciate, but it would be nice if it could stick around so they could give it a shot. Sam loved this stupid little planet.

“We’ve seen our share of battlefields, haven’t we, Sammy?”

Sam doesn’t ever say so, but he kinda hates when Dean gets all maudlin like this. He prefers Dean when he’s talking his ear off about inconsequential things, not the cosmic shit. Not that Dean’s not capable of dealing with it, but Sam selfishly wants him to be normal when the world around him is anything but. “Yeah, I guess we have,” is all he says.

“Man, we sure have. That’s another thing that makes me wonder what it is that’s got you so interested about this place. When you were a kid, maybe I could see it. To be honest, it seems more my beat to wanna see somethin’ like this. But what’s the appeal for you, huh? I mean, you’re not some Civil War buff. Hell, I mean, I know you spend all that time with your nose in a book – you been gettin’ into this stuff? Or did I miss something with you? Has this always been on the bucket list?” Sam is quiet for a moment. Too long of a moment for Dean apparently, because he keeps talking. “And like I said, we’ve seen our share of the bloody and the gory. We’ve looked Death right in the eye, Sammy. Cheated it more than our fair share. And this place has got plenty of that – it’s a helluva reminder. What’re we doin’ here?”

Sam stared his brother down for a moment. Then he took off his backpack and sets it on the floor, opened it up and pulled out a manila folder. He handed it off to Dean, who opened it and immediately began to scan as Sam begins to speak again. It contained the famous picture they were talking about, and a few things marked as property of the Men of Letters, American branch, dated from the period right before the war to the early years of Reconstruction.

“Gettysburg has gotta be one of the most haunted sites – one of the most haunted towns, period – in the entire country. Now, the Battle of Gettysburg wasn’t the bloodiest – that was Antietam, or the Battle of Sharpsburg, if you’re in the South – but it was one of the most significant because it was the high-water mark for the South, meaning that this was the furthest North they ever got. In fact, the actual point is nearby.”

“’Kay. What’s your point? Is there a case here? I mean, probably, right? Chuck cracked open Hell, and I’m sure a few soldiers filtered their way out and are looking to get some payback.” Makes sense to Dean, anyways, but Sam hesitated.

“Not exactly. See, I have a theory.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well, besides the battle, there’s never been an accident here – at least, not a supernatural one, not even since Heaven and Hell fell. In fact, at all of these battlefields, I haven’t heard of or found any evidence of violence being caused by ghosts, spirits…anything. Certainly not recently.”

Dean couldn’t see where this was going. “Again – what’s your point?”

Sam was starting to get frustrated that Dean wasn’t getting this. “My point is that…people still claim these sites are haunted. Right?”

“Right.”

“But nothing has ever happened!” His excitement was mounting “I think there’s a reason for that. I think there’s a reason they aren’t becoming vengeful.”

Okay, now that _had_ to be bullshit. Dean lowered the files and shoots Sam a dry look. “C’mon, Sammy. You serious? You know as well as I do that any ghost that sticks around eventually goes dark side. Hell, it was starting to happen to Bobby before we had to take care of that. I don’t care if it’s been over a hundred-and-fifty years. Just cuz they ain’t vengeful yet don’t mean they won’t go down that path. Because they will.”

“But that’s exactly it! It’s been over a hundred-and-fifty years, Dean. And if anyone would have a reason to go vengeful pretty much right away, it’d be these guys. They’re casualties of war. Guys on the side of the Union believed they were being killed by their own countrymen. If anybody has a reason to be bitter, it’s these guys. But…no incidents. I think they were bitter enough in life, Dean, that they’re finally free in death.”

Dean just stared, but Sam was not deterred. He knew that he could get Dean to understand this – but he usually had to be _shown_ , wanted real, solid proof. Faith was never Dean’s strong suit, and that’s okay, it really is – that’s what Sam’s here for, even as he now is moving to find faith in the everyday things instead of the divine. “I stumbled across some stuff in the Men of Letters’ archives,” he continued. “Totally on accident, was looking for something else. During the Reconstruction period, there was a lot of correspondence between agents across the country – “

“Don’t tell me that the Lincoln assassination was an inside job. Please, Sam. Don’t do that to me.”

Sam reared back. “It wasn’t – “

“And don’t tell me that they had anything to do with starting the war, either. Just – don’t.”

It took Sam a minute, but then he got it: it’s nice to know that some things just _happen_. That they weren’t planned by some higher-up power that no one can begin to understand. Yeah, he gets that real well. “I wasn’t going to. Because none of that is true. But some of the members actually fought, on both sides, and after the war, while everyone was rebuilding, they were figuring out who they’d lost, archiving, all that stuff. That’s why we have those papers. It just got me to thinking. So I collected all the stuff about the Battle of Gettysburg into one file, and…here we are.”

“Sammy, you still aren’t makin’ any sense here.”

Sam took the file back from Dean and carefully put it back in his bag. He put his backpack back on. Dean just continued to stare as Sam contentedly got ready for the next part of their little adventure. “C’mon,” Sam nodded his head, “I wanna head over to Little Round Top.”

Dean bit his lip as Sam headed back for the stairs to make his descent. He didn’t get it, but he got Sam, and he knew what he was doing here. Sam always kept the faith. That the good was still out there. Maybe God wasn’t the answer – hell, Dean knew he wasn’t, knew he wasn’t the good in the world. But that would never stop Sam (or Dean, for that matter), from stopping looking for it. And if he found it in a few friendly ghosts, Dean supposed that wasn’t such a bad thing. (If it was even a thing at all.)

“Sam, wait.”

Sam turns on his heel. “Yeah?”

“You, uh, if you’re sure about this…well you gotta prove it to me, then. I mean, this is coming real outta nowhere, but I mean…there are some ghosts out there that are just warnings, ya know? Or they get stuck. I guess these guys may just be stuck.”

Sam stared hard at his brother, but he was smiling. “Yeah, maybe. But what I’m saying is that they might not be stuck at all – they may be perfectly happy to still be here.”

xXx

The brothers strolled through the peach orchard to get to Little Round Top. During the day, there are plenty of tourists milling around, some of whom recognize the spot at Devil’s Den the boys were just talking about. There’s a couple of tour groups, too, and a ranger milling around. There’s also what looks to be a troop of boy scouts. In short, it’s fairly busy, so Sam stashes the EMF meters. Dean notices.

“What’s the deal?”

“Nothin’,” Sam shrugged. “Just don’t want any questions.”

Fair enough. “So what’m I lookin’ at now?”

“On the second day of the battle, the Confederates attempted an assault on the Union’s left flank, but it failed. There was a whole dramatic bayonet attack and everything, but the Union had a better defense than their offense, and it was a contributing factor to their victory.”

Sam was too busy staring at the rocky hill before him to notice that Dean is staring hard at him, a mixture of amused and kinda weirded out at how Sam just always seems to have the needed information at disposal. “You sure you haven’t always had some secret obsession with the Civil War that I’m only just now finding out about? Because you’ve always been an encyclopedia of nearly useless knowledge, but this is just crazy.”

“Nope. Just did my research before we got here.” Sam kinda smiles. “It’s kinda cool, though, isn’t it? To be in the same place where something so important happened. Something that people will…remember.”

Oh-ho-ho – _there_ it is! A whole ‘nother layer to this trip suddenly peeled back on the proverbial onion. Dean pointed his nose slightly in the air and stared ahead, like he had it all figured out. “Oh. I see. You’re on that whole, ‘what’s my legacy gonna be, can we really make the world a better place’ kick again.” Dean didn’t say that the question had been on his mind a lot lately, too, _especially_ now, when they were working to try to preserve a universe that could just as easily forget them as remember them. Dean would rather he be forgotten for all time and let life go on than be remembered in humanity’s final days as some sort of raging war hero – which he most certainly was not. 

“Like you never think about it. Like we’ve never had _entire conversations_ devoted to the subject. C’mon, I know you think about what we’re going to leave behind when we’re gone, who we’ll be remembered by and for what. So cram it, Butterball, and try to keep up – Devil’s Den is right over there.” Dean started to follow as Sam started off again, befuddled. 

“ _Butterball?_ ” Dean repeated under his breath to himself, then louder, so Sam could hear, “Hey, what’s with you and the fat jokes today?”

Sam didn’t answer, just smirked at Dean and then turned back to the little alcove. It _is_ strange, Dean thinks to himself, being anyplace where so many people have died. A place like this, where all you have to do is turn your head and yep, someone probably bit it on the patch of grass you’re staring at. Dean knows enough about this place to know that it was essentially a mass grave for a while, and it’s no fuckin’ wonder the joint is all spooked-up. 

Maybe one of those rinky-dink ghost tours wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Would they be able to get in here at night? Hell, the grounds were so extensive Dean doubted anyone would know if they did, or if he and Sam just camped out and waited for the personnel to leave so they could get a real scan of the place. But Dean also figured the town also had to be pretty haunted, right? Again, one of those spooky East Coast towns – they were all like that. These old towns gave you the heebs _and_ jeebs.

“You here for the talk?”

Dean came out of his reverie and spied guy smiling at him. Well, not a guy – a ranger, unless this was just some weirdo who likes to dress up in khakis and that funny hat they wear. The guy was probably around their age, with glasses and a beard, and Dean figures he’s gotta be sweating his ass off, but he was smiling to beat the band, like there’s no place he would rather be than Gettysburg National Military Park. 

“Uh – “

“There’s a talk?” Sam asked eagerly, coming up from behind Dean.

“In a few minutes,” the ranger confirmed. “We explore the summit, look at some breastworks, talk about the importance of the site. It’s only about an hour, so if you have the time for it, I’d recommend you stick around.”

Sam perked up at this bit of news, and Dean wilted. So not only were they going to be wandering around this battlefield in the unforgiving July heat, but they were going to have to _learn_ , too? It needed to be about thirty degrees cooler for Dean to retain any information. Why _now_ – why were they here _now?_ Sam couldn’t have waited to investigate this hunch in October, maybe? Then again, they may be dead by October….

“Pretty good luck, huh?” Sam grinned, nudging Dean. It was hard to put a damper on things when Sam was actually excited about something because he so rarely was, so Dean bit back the snark and wordlessly nodded instead.

A group had slowly amassed by the top of the hour, of families with school-aged kids and dads wearing T-shirts tucked into their cargo shorts and mothers wearing visors and fanny packs; the Boy Scout troop had decided to tag along in all their handkerchiefed finery; then there were some stragglers, and Dean wished that he and Sam looked more alike because he was sick of people assuming that they were in a relationship, even to themselves. Oh, well. C’est la vie. 

Dean was really regretting not wearing shorts, too, Ricketts be damned, because there was a bit more walking involved as they explored the area, but Sam looked to be having the time of the life – he was in a history nerd’s paradise. Again, Dean probably would have thought all of this was a lot cooler if he were comfortable enough to even register what the ranger was saying. The one time he was really able to tune in was when one of the scouts brazenly raised his hand and asked about ghosts in the area.

“Oh, sure,” the ranger said good-naturedly as they walked. “We get plenty of reports of ghosts not just here in the Den, but all over the battlefield and in town. People lead tours almost every night, including a man who used to work here – something to do now that he’s retired.”

Dean nudged Sam, whispered, “Maybe we should look him up.”

Sam shrugged and whispered back, “The tours probably aren’t gonna be too helpful to guys like us. Think it’ll be easier to just hide out while everyone clears out and wait for nightfall.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at his brother – it was usually his move to suggest breaking the rules, but hey, we all change. Sam probably more than anybody, and sometimes that made Dean sad to think about.

xXx

“So where exactly should we hide out?”

The brothers were sitting under a tree in the peach orchard, Dean sprawled out with his head laying on Sam’s backpack while Sam looked at their map, searching for the perfect hiding spot. It wasn’t like this was going to be hard for them – evading government workers was sort of their thing – but you still had to be careful about it; it certainly helped that the battlefield was so vast. Sam had already clocked in quite a few steps, as the health app on his phone told him, with many more to come, he was sure. “Somewhere near the tree line, I think. Hide back there. Place should be clear of visitors around ten, then I would hope anybody working here was gone by what – midnight, you think?”

“Sure hope so. That ranger said there’s reports of ghost all over, so where exactly are you trying to find one? And are you like…trying to _talk_ to one? Ask Jedediah the Friendly Ghost ‘bout why he’s just hangin’ in the Veil?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what to expect, exactly. Just…something different than the usual, I guess. I mean, I’d say pretty much anywhere is a safe bet. Right? Whole damn place is haunted.”

Dean hummed in agreement. “Weird case we got on our hands here. Also, you kinda pulled it outta your ass.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just means that we’re here on one of your hippie-dippy, existential mindset notions about the circle of life and the meaning of it all and” – Big sigh – “probably something about the morality of ghosts or whatever. You know how you are. I think it’s your hair – once your hair’s long enough to pull back you start to get _notions._ ”

Notions? So suddenly Sam was the only person with _notions?_ Well, if Sam had notions, Dean had moods, and it seemed he was in the mood to get on Sam’s nerves; however, Sam was going to be the bigger person both literally and figuratively, and not take the bait. Not right now, at least. “Well, nightfall isn’t for a while. Wanna play tourist?”

Dean pouted his bottom lip and tilted his head, like the question really required that much thought. “I guess,” he finally shrugged. “Do they have a giftshop?”

“Yeah, but it closes at six. So if you wanna hit that and the museum up, we can do that and then maybe check out the National Cemetery and go from there?”

“Sounds good to me.”

xXx

“Hey, Sam – check this out!”

There was something that felt a little sacrilegious about shot glasses with the Gettysburg Address on them, but Dean clearly thought they were the funniest thing he’d seen in a while. Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother, who was giddily holding them up in the air. “Whad’ja find?”

“Man, we need these. And probably some mugs. Maybe those ‘don’t tread on me’ ones….”

Sam shook his head and looked at the assortment of glassware. They were more kitsch than anything – he preferred the books he’d found, but maybe a new mug wouldn’t be so bad. Or maybe the Abe Lincoln baseball that also had the Gettysburg Address on it. That actually made Sam remember something – or, not really remember, but remind him. He’d had a dream. The dream had to do with Gettysburg, PA and baseball and their family, and for as strange as it had been, there had been something prophetic about it. So, yes, they were here because Sam had found those files, he hoped to meet some friendly ghosts, but there was more to his hunch than that. And part of that hunch had to do with himself, and that scared him. 

“Dean, dude, you know that the ‘don’t tread on me’ stuff has become, like, a motto for conservatives? We’re not taking that shit back to the bunker. Think about our dignity.”

“Really?” Dean sneered. He considered the yellow shot glass with the snake on it in a new light. This country could be really fucked up sometimes. Sam had a fake to vote, but Dean didn’t feel the need to participate in that way. He’ll eat at every greasy spoon and see every roadside attraction and visit all the monuments and shit, but the rest of it just made him tired. Besides, he was supposed to be dead, and dead people can’t vote. Probably. “Huh. That’s fucked up. Oh, well.” He set it down. He’d just go with the ones with the address on it. And maybe that Freemason dagger….

xXx

The trek to the National Cemetery was made slightly more bearable by the sinking of the sun, which cast that beautiful golden hour glow over the entire battlefield. A beautiful place for blood to be shed, that’s what it was. Though, nobody who died here had probably cared about the scenery, or took the time to notice how the vast expanse of green fields looked under a sunset. Oh, this Earth. Both of them wished for nothing more than to be able to keep it turning, God be damned. This place, it seemed to Sam, was living proof that humans are more often than not authors of their own stories, even if Sam and Dean hadn’t been up to this point. What were the words to “Battle Hymn of the Republic”? _‘As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free.’_ That line right there invoked taking God by the balls and telling him to fuck off – that this world and our destinies were in _our_ hands now.

Oh, this world.

“Silence and respect,” Dean read off a little placard. “Are there any Confederate soldiers buried here?”

“A few,” Sam whispered, not wanting to wake the dead just yet. “There were some bodies that were just…beyond identification. It was an accident. They’re buried in the battlefield, though.”

“Jeeze,” Dean hissed. That about summed it up right. 

The place was pretty deserted by now, only a few people around that Sam could see, and they were pretty far away, so he risked pulling out the EMF, which Dean raised a questioning brow at. “What?”

“We’re in a graveyard, ya know,” Dean snarked. “Thing’s gonna go crazy.”

“I know,” Sam shrugged, and for some reason, he thought of Jack on that case in Dodge City. “I just…want to see if there’s more activity in some spots than others.” He paused. “You know, we’re pretty close to Culp’s Hill, which is by the tree line. We could probably stake out there for the night.”

“Perfect.”

They walked in silence from that point on. Sam kept the meter out for a little longer, noticing some spikes in activity closer to the actual graves – particularly those belonging to unknown soldiers - than the many, many monuments scattered throughout the grounds, which made sense, so he stashed it. Sam stopped to read everything, and eventually Dean gave in and did, too. When they stopped by the monument that marked the spot where Lincoln gave the address, Dean asked,

“You think all of this was part of Chuck’s plan, too?”

Sam furrowed his brow. He sincerely hoped not, knowing what he knew now. Once upon a time, it would have been a comforting thought to think that man was not so corrupt on its own, that it was God who was forcing them to do these things. Now, not so much. Sam would much rather humans be as gloriously fucked up as they are all on their own, that not everything had been caused by Chuck pulling the strings and forcing people to kill each other, their brothers, their countrymen, total strangers. He thought again, that God and Christ could make you holy, but they couldn’t make you free. You had to do that yourself, and maybe that’s just what these men had done. They’d fought to make more people – maybe even themselves – a little more free. Sure, the Union Army wasn’t free of its own kind of racism, but hey – baby steps, he supposed, though progress could sometimes be annoyingly, disturbingly slow.

“I hope not,” Sam whispered solemnly. “It’s enough that he had to manipulate not just us, but the people around us, too, to tell his stupid story. Then again, that manipulation might run so deep….” He trailed off, shrugging.

This answer seemed to just piss Dean off a little more. “That motherfucker…if all these wars, all this death, had to happen in order for everything to fall into place just so he could fuck with us, I’m gonna be even more pissed.”

That brought up a lot of questions that Sam tried hard not to think about, but couldn’t avoid. What if Chuck had created all the bad in the world just so he could get their parents together so they could have him and his brother and then pit them against each other and the world for his own entertainment? This was boiling it down really far, almost too simplistically, but if slavery needed to happen in order for Sam to be born, that was beyond fucked up. You know? That whole butterfly effect, cosmic tumblers thing. One thing had to happen for the other to happen. Sam and Dean apparently had ancestors on the Mayflower, and without colonists, there would have been no Revolutionary War, and without that, no nation to eventually descend into civil war. 

Oh, dear Christ. Jesus God. 

(Both of them really hated that the phrase ‘ _Oh my god’_ had been essentially ruined, but what’re ya gonna do?)

“Maybe we could ask one of your ghosts if they know what’s happening,” Dean went on, voice thick with anger. “If they know what He’s done. Hell, I know _I_ wouldn’t say no to a ghost army, ‘specially if they’re already soldiers. Get what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed, still staring at the bust of Abe Lincoln as the sun went down and sent the battlefield into darkness. They’d need to get moving if they didn’t want to get caught. “I just…people don’t deserve to be used. Not by anybody. Not God, or-or fuckin’ plantation owners, nobody. We’re not things. We’re _people_.” And that was the important distinction.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Amen, brother.”

xXx

The battlefield was…well, it _was_ eerily silent, but that seems a bit obvious. So, yes, it was pretty fucking spooky, and undeniably quiet, but Sam also felt this strange sense of calm as he sat side-by-side with his brother next to some old cannon in the middle of the night long after the last park ranger had left, up on Culp’s Hill and looking out at the sprawling landscape before them, EMF meters in hand, ready for even the slightest bit of paranormal activity.

It was also still uncomfortably warm. Maybe it was because they hadn’t bothered to go back to the motel to shower so they would have a better chance at hiding out, but they both felt sticky – maybe it wasn’t so hot now that the sun was down and the moon was high in the sky, but the day’s grime still stuck to them, and no matter how peaceful the moment was, it – well, it was kinda gross. Sam would tease Dean about smelling like a barn, but he knew he did, too.

“You know I had a dream the other night?”

“No – you?” Sam shot his brother a wry look, and Dean just smirked. Then, a bit contrite, “What happened?” Might as well find a way to pass the time.

“It was really weird. We were like, living on this farm during the Civil War, this time of year, and we played on this little local baseball team with Cas and Jack…Bobby…Pastor Jim, Caleb, just all these guys we’ve known over the years, and you were like, team captain or whatever they would have called it back then, and you wouldn’t let Jack play because he wasn’t good enough. Then the day of the game, three of our guys were down, so we had to play him and the Ghostfacers – “

” _The Ghostfacers?”_

“Told you it was weird. Anyway, we put them in. And there was this really big play in the middle of the game. You were the pitcher, and Cas was the catcher, and I was at first, and Jack had ended up at, like, third or shortstop – I can’t remember – and we really needed to get this out, and you throw the pitch, and the guy at the plate just whacks it, and then Jack completely abandons his position to go catch the ball, probably to impress you, and he catches it.”

“That all? Pretty anticlimactic.”

“Well, there was like…fireworks and shit.”

“No kidding.”

“No kidding. But then on the next play you go to make the double play and you accidentally get him in the gut and he just gets the _wind_ knocked outta him,” Sam laughed. “Poor kid.”

“Poor kid,” Dean repeated, biting his lip. He glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye, just watched him, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. There was something about Sam and his oddly specific dreams…. “You can see the stars out here,” Dean murmured. “D’ya think they noticed?”

“Do I think who noticed?”

Dean waved a hand at the battlefield. “Ya know. You think when they got the chance in the middle of it all, they ever looked up?”

“There wasn’t any exactly light pollution back then, at least, not like there is now,” Sam shrugged. “They got to see the stars a lot more than we do. Ask me, they probably took it for granted.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathed. He’d always loved turning his eyes to the sky, not looking for anything, just looking. The heavens did not belong to ~~Chuck~~ God only; there was no sign of him up there – at least, Dean believed so. Just the vast wasteland of space, ever-expanding, full of stars and nebulae and _nothingness_. “Hm. We do, too.”

Sam was about to respond, something along the lines of a halfhearted, sleepy agreement, when he heard the faint whir and whine of the EMF meter – both of them – and sat up straighter. “Dean. Look.”

Dean watched as the meter’s needle jumped all the way over to the left, all five lights on top lighting up red. Senses on high alert, he noted that besides the reading on the EMF, there weren’t any other typical signs that there was a ghost around – no cool air or anything – but then a strong breeze picked up, which was welcome, but it brought with it an apparition: a man with a long beard, unkempt hair, and dressed in drab, heavy gray. Sam’s breath caught in his throat, and Dean would later deny it, but he could have sworn he felt his brother grab onto his elbow for reassurance. (Or, maybe not for reassurance, but out of surprise. Anyway – ) The apparition stood in front of them, just staring, maybe waiting for them to make the first move. In all honesty, Sam hadn’t expected to get this far, so he hadn’t really planned on what to do if a ghost had showed up and wasn’t trying to kill them.

“Did we wake you up?” Sam asked, and he wanted to hit himself for asking such a stupid-sounding question.

However, the man just shook his head, then slowly raised his hand, and beckoned Sam and Dean to follow.

xXx

The three walked in silence until they arrived to a covered bridge, which Sam noted was Sach’s Covered Bridge, one of the most haunted spots in the area. As they made their approach, Sam heard a soft gasp from Dean, and he could see why – the place was crawling with the undead. Orbs and mist, specters and barely-there ghosts meandered up and down the bridge, in the water, some of them dressed as soldiers, a few in maybe farm clothes. There had to be at least a couple dozen of them, contentedly trailing feet and fingertips through the water, swinging from the edge of the bridge, idly chatting to each other.

It was sort of beautiful.

“We’s was already awake,” the original apparition finally answered. “We’s come down here e’ery night once all the peoples is gone. Y’all shouldn’t be here, should ya?”

He asked it as a genuine question, not in any foreboding way as if he knew better, but in a way that made Sam’s heart ache a bit. Like he didn’t want to be sent away, and that he hoped they weren’t here to do that. “We came lookin’ for you,” Dean answered, allowing his voice to fall into that sleepy drawl he’d adopted over the years to match the soldier’s tone. Maybe to make him more comfortable – but Sam doubted the ghost was going anywhere. “Well – not you specifically. This is what we do.”

“Look for ghosts?”

“Somethin’ like that. What’s your name, man?”

The soldier shuffled shyly on his feet, looked away at the other ghosts at the bridge, probably wanting to join them, then he tentatively held out his hand. “Thomas Jefferson Willard.”

Dean spared a glance at Thomas Jefferson Willard’s hand, then made the decision that he might as well shake it, figuring he’d slip right through, but the hand that grabbed his felt as real as his own, and he had to hide his surprise. This man had been dead for over a hundred and fifty years, and if it weren’t for the slightly translucent quality to him, and the one single bullet hole over his heart, Dean would be hard pressed to say whether he was alive or not. “Dean Winchester. And this is my brother, Sam.”

“Hello,” Sam breathed, smiling a little weakly. Thomas Jefferson Willard nodded sagely.

“I’ve heard whispers of y’all’s names. Y’ain’t here to get rid of us, is ya? We’s peaceful, ain’t botherin’ nobody.”

“Of course not,” Sam said quickly, then he looked out at the ghosts doing their midnight walkabout. There was an ache inside of him, starting to squeeze at his heart, and he didn’t quite know why that was. “We were just curious.”

“So what year is it?” Thomas asked. Again with that genuine tone of voice. Sam considered him, his Confederate uniform and curled mustache. Just looking at Thomas Jefferson Willard made Sam ache with a sadness, the likes of which was different from the other sadnesses he’d felt before, and he wondered how he could pity a man of such a strict moral opposition to his own. 

“What year was it the last time you asked?” Dean wondered.

Thomas thought a moment, running his fingers through his unruly beard. “Man came here once, said it was nineteen thirty-sumin’.” Sam’s eyes widened; Thomas Jefferson Willard hadn’t spoken to a living soul since before World War Two.

“It’s two-thousand nineteen now,” Dean said.

Sam couldn’t stand to listen to Thomas Jefferson Willard much longer; he had to move. He wandered away a bit as the shock settled in for their paranormal companion, and before he knew it, Sam was pulling off his tennis shoes and climbing into the creek, wading with some of the other ghosts. At first, they just stared at him warily, but he stood still with his hands in his pockets, not making any move that could be perceived as threatening, and eventually they went back about their business, just ignoring him. All except one little girl, who gave off almost a pale blueish light, becoming more and more transparent as you worked your way from the top to the bottom of her body, until all you could really see near the bottom of her was her little white dress trailing in the water. She grinned up at him and held out her hand, and Sam smiled back down at her and held on. Her grip was firm, too, and while she didn’t look as solid as Thomas Jefferson Willard, she sure felt that way. He had to bend down a bit to keep a hold on her, but she deftly pulled him from one side of the creek to the other, then back again, seeming to absolutely delight in this giant of a man. 

“Thomas says her name’s Catherine Klingel.”

Dean had come to stand in the creek with Sam, had rolled his pant legs up past his knees – a rare look for him. Catherine the Friendly Ghost watched Dean with steady, unblinking eyes. Dean grinned down at her, but she didn’t make a move, so he sighed and went on. “Most of the ghosts here are soldiers whose bodies were laid out in her dad’s fields. She died a few months after the battle, and I guess she’s not s’posed to be down here.”

The hold Catherine had on Sam’s hand seemed to tighten. “How come?”

“Apparently, she’s been chained to her house since her death. Her mother is wailing up there for her, I guess.”

It didn’t add up – if most of these ghosts were of men whose bodies had been dumped on that farm, and they were down here, too, how come Catherine wasn’t allowed down here? Probably because it went against the rules; ghosts didn’t just move around on their own accord. These soldiers had probably been all over these grounds; Catherine was so young when she died that she’d probably never had the time to stray far from her home. Then again, the rules had been thrown out the window lately – God himself had torn up the script and said screw the world, so who’s to say Catherine hadn’t been unchained? But of course that would upset her mother – they’d spent the past hundred-and-fifty years together in that house, and one night she’s just not there? Ghosts have feelings, too – the punishment for having once been human.

“Thomas thinks we should take her home.”

As if on cue, the wind kicked up just then, and it carried on it a distant but unmistakable keening noise from the west. Catherine perked up at the sound, but didn’t make a move, didn’t let go of Sam’s hand, but Sam agreed with his brother. “How’re we supposed to do that?”

Dean gestured over his shoulder to Thomas up on the bank behind them. “He’s got an idea.”

xXx

Thomas Jefferson Willard, being the good-ol’ southern boy he was, gave them an escort through the battlefield from Sach’s Bridge to the Klingel farm, all the way from Waterworks Road and passing the Eisenhower Farm to Emmitsburg Road until they came upon a little white farmhouse surrounded by an old split-rail fence. Catherine held Sam’s hand the entire way, appearing to float just a bit above the ground, feet not visible, and Sam no longer having to bend down to accommodate her height. He had no clue why she’d become so attached to him, but Sam found himself not minding. Kids had always been more receptive to Dean, or at least, they usually were. 

Sam hadn’t quite figured out what Thomas’ idea was to get Catherine home, unless it was literally just walking her there, which is what they were doing. He had figured they were going to need to find some sort of object she was attached to, or something like that, but instead they had walked the entire way in contented silence, Thomas’ rifle slung casually over his shoulder, Dean a few paces behind him, carrying his shoes and swinging them as he hummed softly, and then Sam and Catherine another few paces behind Dean. They were a merry troupe, for sure, no matter they were in the grim company of two not-so-grim ghosts. The grim part was when you remembered they’d been dead a century and a half, that they were here, but they really weren’t.

Standing on the old farmhouse’s front stoop was the pale ghost of a woman in a long blue dress, crying her eyes out. It seemed an appropriate response to not knowing where your child was, and this wasn’t the first time she’d lost her child, either – Catherine appeared young, and she’d died young. For her mother to be able to spend the afterlife in the Veil with her prematurely dead daughter had probably been some sort of divine comfort; to not know where she was after spending all this time together must have been terrifying. But when Mrs. Klingel saw her daughter, she put her hands over her heart and sobbed once in relief before composing herself.

“It’s like they’ve got their own little society with its own rules,” Dean said over his shoulder.

“Perhaps we do,” Thomas shrugged, and Dean looked sorry and embarrassed for having been overheard – he’d never quite mastered the art of whispering, always got too worked up. “Been here long ‘nuff.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, watching on as Catherine was reunited with her mother. “So, what exactly did we just do, Thomas? She just…walked with us.”

Thomas shrugged, watching on. “Figgered she’d follow if you went. She liked ya.”

“See, Sammy?” Dean grinned. “Common sense.”

Yeah, yeah, whatever. Sam checked his watch – three-thirty in the morning. The sun would be up before they knew it, and these guys would disappear. They didn’t have much longer, and Sam still had questions. What he really wanted to know was why he knew to come here. Sure, the dream had been about him and his family hanging around playing baseball in some weird alternate universe where they lived during the battle, could read about it as news in the paper and not as something that happened a long time ago in history books. But then those files showed up, almost as if the dream had led him to them. Or…who knows. It could just be a coincidence, and a pretty stupid one at that. But here they were, and his hunch had been right, the place was teeming with friendly ghosts – even Confederate ones, which was…weird – and they’d come in time to help return a girl to her mother. Maybe they’d been needed here, somehow.

Sam didn’t always like thinking about his powers. They’d led him down a very dark path all those years ago, and these days, with what he knew now about God, they usually made him angry. Chuck had tainted him, made him _other_. But they weren’t so bad when he got to use them to help people, dead or not.

“Where ya from, Thomas?” Dean asked. He was watching Catherine and her mother, too.

“Virginia. Died on that hill y’all was sittin’ on when I found ya’s. Dragged my body over here.” He pointed to a vague spot a ways away. “Laid up close to the house.”

“Do you miss it?” Dean asked. “Virginia?”

“Sometimes,” Thomas said, stroking his beard. Sam stared at that hole in his chest, the fatal shot that had led him to being dumped in the Klingel’s farm fields saturated with blood. “I try not to think too much why I can’t be goin’ back. I guess the places we die is important too, jus’ like the places we born.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and nodded sagely. “I agree.”

“Sometimes fellas like y’all come along, like they know we’s here.” Thomas turned to Sam. “You – you knew we was here. Din’t ya?”

Dean watched Sam closely. “I think I might’ve,” he admitted. Thomas nodded.

“Gift of Sight,” he said. “That’s one’a the things the others trapped here between life and death say ‘bout ya. You’re gifted.”

“Something like that,” Sam said sheepishly. It felt so good out here right now, with the sun down. His feet were killing him, and knew Dean’s had to be hurting something awful, too, but there was a breeze in the air and the stars were out. It was beyond beautiful. These open spaces always were. “Usually the dreams I have are a little more…straightforward, the ones that take us to places. Usually people die. The one that brought us here…it was just a hunch. I dreamed, found those files almost on coincidence,” he admitted, mostly to Dean, who was watching him with those suspicious eyes that he hated almost more than anything, “and I thought…I _hoped_ that if you all were here, that maybe you…wanted to be here? Still?”

Thomas became thoughtful. “Like I said, the place ya die’s important, too. And it ain’t such a bad place to spend forever, I s’pose.”

“Aren’t you angry, though?” Dean asked gently. “You died horrifically, you can never go home, and, I hate to break it to ya, but your side lost.”

Sam’s breath caught, but Thomas didn’t get angry; he didn’t take Dean’s bait, even if that wasn’t exactly Dean’s intention. Instead, he was just quiet. Maybe some ghosts got angrier with time, while others just mellowed; what use would vengeance be for him, anyways? He died in a long-gone war, and while the country was still scarred by it, there were winners and losers, and he was one of the losers. Maybe Sam and Dean needed to rethink their whole, _violent deaths lead to violent ghosts_ theory. Guess it was time to start taking things case by case.

“I may not’a been the best of men,” Thomas began slowly, “but I joined up in the name of my home. Virginia men got pride if nothin’ else. I died for it. There are worse things to die for.”

True, Thomas had died defending slavery, which is fucked up, but there was some truth to what he said. Actually, there was a lot of truth. Was a racist sounding reasonable to them? God, they must have been tired for that to be the case. 

“Gentlemen?”

Mrs. Klingel waved them into the house – she wanted to thank them for returning Catherine, who Sam was sort of sad to have to say goodbye to, and then Dean mentioned that they probably should get a move on if they wanted to get back to the car before the rangers came in for work and busted them. And he was tired and hungry and they had a long walk, so get a move on, Sammy.

“It was nice meetin’ ya,” Dean said to Thomas. “Really.” Sam heard the unspoked _Even though you and all your buddies were fucking racist, but to be fair, so we’re plenty of the boys in blue and a lot of people nowadays, but…yeah._

“Likewise,” Thomas said, and that was all. He lifted his hand in farewell as he had in greeting, and then disappeared into the night.

xXx

“So. The visions are back.”

Sam’s feet were killing him. He didn’t want to have this talk, but they needed to. “They might be. Chuck woke up a lot when he broke the world. Maybe my powers was one of those things.”

Dean sighed. God, his feet were killing him. They were all swollen and sweaty and frankly, they hurt so bad he wanted to die, and no, he was not exaggerating. “You shoulda said so.”

“I wasn’t quite ready to admit it to myself. Ya know? I thought it would be easier just to explain it all away with the files. But maybe we were supposed to come here. To help Catherine and her mother. Meet Thomas. Maybe all of that was supposed to happen.”

“Maybe,” Dean sighed. It was always _Maybe_. “Thomas Jefferson Willard, the Friendly Confederate Ghost.”

“Dude, we need to stop making Casper jokes.”

Dean laughed. “Not on my life.”

They didn’t talk about Sam powers or anything else until Dean nearly cried in relief at the sight of his Baby.

xXx

They were the sort of tired that ached so good, slumping into their booth at the first local diner they lighted upon felt better than sex, and that was the goddamned truth. The car was parked just outside their window, the sunrise reflecting in the chrome and pitch-black paint, and already the birds were singing their song, coming in to take over for the cicadas. There weren’t many other people in the diner besides the staff, maybe a few locals on their way to work, and a couple enthusiastic tourists. It was shaping up to be another hot one, and if the decorations around the diner were any indication, a very patriotic Fourth of July; there was red-white-and-blue bunting and streamers, and little American flags all over the place. A middle-aged waitress even had this ridiculous headband covered in silver tinsel and stars on, but she looked happy as a clam, so why ruin her fun?

“I’m starved,” Dean grunted, flipping lazily through the menu, seriously considering ordering at least half of it – they’d done way too much walking, and when they got back to the motel, he was going straight to bed. Screw the shower, he’d fuck with that later.

The two had been to their share of old-fashioned diners over the years, with the menus that had pages upon pages of options, and this one was no exception. It wasn’t really anything out of the usual, but after the night they’d had, even the simplest short-stack sounded gourmet. “Yeah, I’d…I’d be okay if I didn’t walk for, like, a week.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “You? Mr. Gotta-Get-My-Steps in? Mr. Kale Salad? The Dude Who Jogs? I don’t believe it.”

“Ha-ha,” Sam deadpanned, and then just as he was about to flip off his brother, that waitress with the headband sauntered up to their table.

“Mornin’, gentlemen!” She chirped. “What can I start y’all off with?”

“As much coffee as you can brew.”

The waitress – Betty, her nametag said – laughed, not even writing it down. “Take it y’all spent yesterday at the battlefield?”

“You _bet_ , Betty. My brother here is some sort of masochist, had us walking all over kingdom come.”

“Oh, I get it. But you’re gonna go check out the fireworks tonight, right?” At their blank stares, Betty went on to explain. “Well, every year the park does a big fireworks show over the battlefield. It’s a great time, can’t miss it.”

Sam shrugged at Dean, and Dean held up a placating hand. “Sounds awesome,” he said sleepily, “but I need coffee and bacon first.”

xXx

After coffee and bacon and a stop at the motel to shower and sleep through to the evening, they were right back where they started – at the battlefield. And it had been another scorcher.

“I just wasn’t built for summer, Sammy,” Dean lamented.

“Dude, no one’s telling you not to wear shorts, you’re the only one doing that. Live your life. You wear those cutoffs when you wash the cars. Let out your inner slut.”

“Oh, shut the _fuck. Up_.”

The place was crawling with people, more than it had been when they were here just twenty-four hours ago. Both of them wondered to themselves if the ghosts would come out to play tonight, Thomas Jefferson Willard and Catherine and her mother and all the other soldiers, with all these people around. Maybe not. Probably wouldn’t want to risk it. 

“Remember that Fourth of July, where I bought all those fireworks? You were like, thirteen,” Dean asked, reminiscing as they sat in the grass and watched the sky, waiting for the show to start.

“’Course,” Sam said. “Super illegal. Super fun – but super illegal.”

“So’s everything else we do,” Dean shot back, but he was grinning. “Don’t suck the fun out of everything.”

“I don’t!”

“You totally, completely, one-hundred percent do.”

Sam rolled his eyes and fondly said, “Yeah, fuck you, too, motherfucker.”

Ah, this was the sort of brotherly banter they just _lived_ for.

It felt like they were waiting for something, and not just for fireworks, either – what nobody else sitting on this battlefield right now knew was that this place was simply teeming with life beyond theirs. When not a soul was around in the middle of the night, it was still full. Who would have thought a place that had witnessed so much death could be full of so much _life?_ Sure, they were dead, but their souls still lingered, and that had to count for something. Didn’t it?

There were probably more places like this all over. This continent alone was probably crawling with the peaceful spirits of the past, still as much a part of the land as the living. Perhaps they had just as much right to it all even after death. And who could blame them for staying? Things were always changing, but why was Heaven necessarily a better home than Earth? Again and again we have to be reminded that Earth is more wonderful than any of us could ever know, and maybe these ghosts had the right idea, sticking around a planet that was sometimes so beautiful it made your heart ache to think of it, to see it, to even imagine having to leave it behind.

That’s why Sam and Dean did what they do.

“This wasn’t as stupid as I thought it would be,” Dean admitted. “This isn’t a bad way to spend the Fourth, and I gotta admit, last night was…something.”

“It sure was,” Sam agreed softly. He hoped Catherine and Thomas were somewhere good tonight, that maybe they’d be able to see the fireworks from wherever they were. Thomas may have ended up on the wrong side of history, but nobody should be denied a good fireworks show. “They didn’t give up on this place, Dean. They loved it here so much that they stayed.” And no, not Gettysburg, PA, which would be otherwise unremarkable if it hadn’t been the setting for one of the most remarkable battles in human history – Earth. Again and again. 

“Can’t blame them, on nights like this,” Dean whispered. The Earth smelled of sweet grass and summer breeze, and the cicadas clicked and a few birds here and there sang and the people around them buzzed with collective anticipation. “I don’t want to die, Sammy.”

Sam’s heart clenched at the sudden confession, though he had heard it before. He didn’t either. The raw emotion in Dean’s voice – which was sadder and softer, lacking the usual gruffness – made him feel sick with melancholy. And Sam was so over being sad. “I know,” he said. “We’re not going to.”

“Oh, yeah? And how would you know?”

“Because I have faith,” Sam grinned. And it was so true, Sam had to smile wider. It wasn’t a faith in God – or Chuck or whatever the fuck He wanted to be called. It was a simpler, truer faith, a faith founded in loyalty and trust. It found its roots in the same principles they were celebrating tonight, in that elusive pursuit of happiness. That this planet was so _good_ that they had to do everything in their power to not only save it and everyone else living on it, but they owed it to themselves to see the harvest of the seeds that had been planted. “I have faith in us, Dean. We’re all too stubborn to let go so easily.”

Dean watched his little brother closely. He’d always kept the faith. Always always. 

“Okay,” he said, nodding once. “Then I do, too.”

As if that had been their cue, the first firework exploded in the night sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Be sure to check out the other hiatus creations from this week and others on Tumblr @spnhiatuscreations.


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